


puppy

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, parody!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d’Artagnan wakes up one day and notices a sudden change in his three friends. He’s concerned, and, well, a little terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Mild cursing. No spoilers in particular. Also: a parody of sorts?

**Puppy  
**

d'Artagnan wakes to a perfectly pleasant morning–the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the dry, creeping chill that he has come to dread from his time in Paris seems to have dissipated. Even the usual morning perfume of woodsmoke, stale wine, and horsedung seems to have parted enough to allow the bracing smell of freshly baked bread to creep through. d'Artagnan finishes his morning ablutions well before the call for muster, spends far less time than usual in front of the mirror making sure his hair hangs in a musketeer-worthy fashion, and, indeed, makes his way down to the yard with a song on his lips.

To his surprise, Porthos is already there, munching on a fresh baguette. “Pup!” he says around a mouthful. “A beautiful morning!”

d'Artagnan looks over his shoulder and then carefully surveys their surroundings. There are a few other soldiers in sight, but none within Porthos’ earshot. “Who’re you talking to, Porthos?”

Porthos blinks, then guffaws and slings an arm around d'Artagnan’s shoulder with such force d'Artagnan is almost bent in half. “I’m talkin’ to _you_ , whelp! Bein’ cheeky to me first thing in the morning isn’t really going to make me go any easier on you today in training, even if you pull ‘em puppy dog eyes on me again!”

d'Artagnan isn’t sure what’s concerning him more: Porthos’ almost obnoxious ebullience first thing in the morning, or his insistence on comparing d'Artagnan to a dog. “Porthos,” he starts, a little delicately, “I’m not sure what that–”

Suddenly a hand descends on his head, ruffling his hair. He flinches away violently, instinctively reaching for his  _main gauche_ , only to find Aramis beaming at him. He hastily smooths his hair down. “Aramis–” he says, only half-joking, “touch me like that again, and I  _will_ stab you.”

Somewhat humiliatingly, Aramis starts laughing. “The puppy’s got some zest in him today, Porthos!”

Porthos joins in his laughter. “Be careful, Aramis, or he may piddle in your bed tonight!”

“What is  _wrong_ with the two of you today?” d'Artagnan cries despairingly. “You’ve never called me a, a, puppy before, or a dog, or, what’s that, Porthos? A  _whelp_? Have you had something to drink?”

Porthos and Aramis only laugh harder.

Finally, Athos puts d'Artagnan out of his misery by approaching them, lip curled in quiet disapproval. “If you are  _quite_ done,” he says, “we have been accorded a special assignment today by the Captain. We leave immediately, so get ready, gentlemen.”

d'Artagnan frowns. “An assignment that couldn’t wait until morning muster?”

Athos pauses in the middle of walking away and looks at him. “Yes.”

“That needs all four of us.”

“Yes.”

“But the Captain has briefed only you.”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t tell us what this assignment is before we leave.”

“No.”

“If it helps,” Aramis interjects, “it’s a  _special_ assignment.”

d'Artagnan throws his hands up in the air. “But,  _Athos_ –”

Athos gives him a suspiciously paternal pat on the shoulder. “You already know more than you need to, young d'Artagnan. Now get ready and stop asking naive questions.”

d'Artagnan stares after Athos, utterly dumbfounded.  _Naive_? Since when was asking for the details of a mission naive, and, more importantly, since when did  _Athos_ refuse to tell him vital information, even when he was a fledgling recruit? No, something is terribly wrong with his brothers today, and d'Artagnan is determined to find out the cause. If it is a prank, well–d'Artagnan will have words, won’t he? He will have  _words_.

So it is with a heavy but determined heart that d'Artagnan readies his horse and follows the other three. The morning sunshine that he’d enjoyed so much now feels oppressively hot on the back of his neck and on the top of his head; the smell of bread is cloying in his nostrils, and the twittering of the birds seems obnoxious and even profoundly offensive to his inflamed senses. Aramis and Porthos are chattering away gaily with Athos contributing every now and then as they ride, seemingly aimlessly, through the French countryside. They often try to involve d'Artagnan in the banter, but he will only co-operate if told  _where_ exactly they’re headed. They only laugh and shake their heads condescendingly at him.

d'Artagnan’s just about had enough when Porthos stop his horse and looks up sharply. “I smell bandits,” he says.

d'Artagnan barely has time to say  _What?!_  before, lo and behold, they are beseiged by a pack of cowled bandits on horseback. How they did not hear the rumble of horses’ hooves until the very last moment, and how Porthos was able to  _smell_ them, d'Artagnan will never know till his dying day. Nevertheless, he dutifully springs from his horse, pistol and sword at the ready.

These bandits, although outnumbering them three to one, are easily dispatched; in fact, one of them collapses with a great plume of blood flying from his chest although d'Artagnan’s pretty sure his blade missed him by at least an inch. When everything is done and they are surrounded by a dozen bloody corpses, Porthos rubs his hands together and says, “Well, we must be gettin’ on, then.”

d'Artagnan looks up from where he’s been poking his sword at the ground, trying to test if there’s some collapsible element to it that’s been added without his knowledge. “We aren’t just going to  _leave_ these bodies here?” he says incredulously. “And why in the world did we kill all of them? Shouldn’t we at least try to find out who they are, who sent them, what they wan– _Aramis_!”

He squawks as Aramis descends upon him, his cloak and bits and pieces fluttering and making him look rather like an overgrown bat, and pokes at something that stings on d'Artagnan’s temple.

“d'Artagnan,” he says sorrowfully, “why must you do this? Why must you not tell me when you’re hurt?”

d'Artagnan bats Aramis’ hands away and touches the wound on his forehead. It feels small and has already stopped bleeding. “It’s nothing, Aramis,” he says, “It barely even stings. What I want to know is–”

“No!” Aramis cries. “I must take care of it!” He proceeds to jog to his saddlebags and retrieve an incongrously large satchel stuffed to the bursting with bandages and thread.

Porthos shrugs when d'Artagnan looks to him for help. “Know you too well to intervene, pup.”

“I’m not a do– _for heaven’s sake_.” He finally turns to Athos. “Athos, you have to tell them–”

To his surprise, Athos only puts a hand on the back of d'Artagnan’s head and draws him tenderly–yet stoically!–to his chest. “My protege,” he murmurs, “my little brother! I will not fail you.”

d'Artagnan closes his eyes and wonders when–or  _if_ –this nightmare would ever end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this installment, d’Artagnan is dismayed to find out that the strange change he sees in his friends is not limited to them. The consequences for him are far worse than he could’ve imagined.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of torture, sliightly graphic. As with the first part, this is a parody, meant to be silly and to gently poke at some fanfic tropes. Let me know if I’ve goofed up anywhere, and I hope you enjoy :)

**_Puppy the second: ‘tis but a flesh wound!_ **

The second time they are attacked, there’s no warning from Porthos’ prescient nose, and d’Artagnan’s sword, so capable before of cutting down enemies even with the wildest swings, doesn’t find its target even once. They are overpowered within minutes, forced to their knees, ropes tied around their wrists, blades resting lightly against their necks. One of the raiders steps forward and throws back his cowl, grinning menacingly.

A few moments pass by in silence. d’Artagnan spends them looking carefully from the raider to his friends and back, before his patience snaps. “Who the hell are you and what do you want from us?”

The raider’s smile fades; he blinks. “Name’s Bob,” he says.

d’Artagnan stares.

“You know,” Bob adds, earnestly, “no one’s ever asked that before.”

d’Artagnan fumes silently, both at what appears to be the vile man’s attempt at mocking him, and at the fact that they could’ve anticipated this only if they’d _bothered_ to spare at least _one man_ from the previous attack and interrogate the bastard. “And what do you want? I assume there’s a reason you haven’t already killed us, so get on with it!”

“d’Artagnan!” Amazingly, Aramis hisses the word in spite of the lack of sibilant syllables.

Bob appears to be deep in thought. Finally, he shakes his head and says, “You know what, I’ll figure it out on the way. Now, little boy, none of the other Musketeers that we’ve captured over the years have ever asked us any questions. You’d do well to follow their example.”

“ _Other_ Musketeers?”

Bob sighs, makes to turn away, then abruptly backhands d’Artagnan across the face. He inadvertently bites the inside of his cheek and spits out a gob of blood.

“Whelp!” Porthos cries, the first thing any of the other three’s said since they were captured, and struggles against his captor. Bob nods to one of his cronies, who kicks Porthos in the side. To d’Artagnan’s horror, he hears several _crack_ s, and Porthos collapses to the ground, grunting. d’Artagnan can hardly believe his eyes—he’s seen Porthos brush off stronger blows than that during _training_ , to think that _this_ has left him with—

“Three broken ribs,” Aramis mutters. “Porthos: three broken ribs.”

“What?”

“I need to keep inventory,” Aramis says. “Porthos, three broken ribs. You, a cut to the forehead and a cut to the cheek. Athos, fatty liver and _possibly_ hyperlipidemia, can’t tell for sure. Anyway, he’s not high on my priority list right now, so never mind.”

“ _What_.”

A warning shout from Bob shuts them all up. They’re thrown on horses and marched through the forest. Porthos grunts from time to time, but for a man with three broken ribs, is managing remarkably well. He even manages to sneak in a quiet reassurance to “Mis, Thos, and Pup” that he’s all right, which baffles d’Artagnan for a few minutes until he realises that Porthos is referring to _them_.

Finally they reach their destination, a huge stone manor in remarkably good upkeep for being in the middle of nowhere and being run by bandits. The Musketeers are thrown into the dungeon; while the ropes around their hands aren’t removed, and their belts and all conceivable weapons taken away, d’Artagnan is relieved that they haven’t been manacled any further. Aramis fusses over Porthos the first opportunity he gets (“ribs three, four and five, lateral, cracked but no displacement, no flail chest” without even touching the man) while d’Artagnan gets awkwardly to his feet and throws his weight against the locked door. Unsurprisingly it doesn’t budge.

He whirls around on the others furiously. “You _have_ to tell me what’s going on, at least _now_. What was our mission supposed to _be_? Where were we supposed to go?”

Athos shakes his head mournfully. “Dear boy, while circumstances have changed, the fact that you need not know has not. In fact, it’s even more important now that we’re captured.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Aramis looks at him pityingly. “So the burden on you is less when you are tortured. How can you tell them something that you do not know, even by accident?”

d’Artagnan’s blood turns to ice. “Tortured?” he says, hating how his voice wavers on the word.

“Happens to every Musketeer—sometimes more than once,” Porthos says. “Every couple of months or so, some of us are waylaid and tortured for information.”

“You may have noticed that the infirmary makes up more than half of the available space at the garrison,” Athos says. “Treville had to relieve a good number of men to accommodate it and all the equipment in there.”

There can’t—d’Artagnan’s never seen any—how in the _world_ —

“Not to worry, pup,” Porthos says brightly. “Whatever happens, Mis here will fix ya up, good as new.”

“I’m not a pup,” d’Artagnan protests half-heartedly, before the door opens and he is dragged away. He tries to fight, but a blow to the head dazes him; the next he is aware, he’s in the middle of a dank room illuminated weakly by a sole window high in the wall. He’s hanging by his wrists from the ceiling, and surrounding him, glinting in the meagre light, is every conceivable form of torture equipment. There are whips and canes and blades; screws and pliers and soot-blackened pokers; scattered nails still rusted with old blood, gags and buckets of swill. Finally, a flat piece of black slate, although d’Artagnan can’t figure out how it might be used to cause him pain. He shudders.

Bob walks into his sight, a long, wicked blade in one hand and a pleasant smile on his face. “Tell me, little dog,” he says, “and I may be merciful.”

In spite of everything, d’Artagnan can’t help but roll his eyes. “Tell you _what_.”

“I assume you are on a mission of some kind,” Bob says. “You Musketeers always are.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” d’Artagnan says, shrugging as much as the bindings will allow him.

Bob looks at him searchingly. “A letter, perhaps? That’s what it was the last eight times. Mostly obscure bits of correspondence between the King’s fifth cousin and his mistress in the country. Glorified postmen, that’s what you are.”

d’Artagnan grits his teeth. “We safely deliver vital information at great personal risk across great distances on perilous terrain.”

“Dress orders and love notes!” Bob snorts.

“If what we do is so frivolous, then why bother finding out?”

Suddenly Bob’s face is close enough that d’Artagnan’s choking on his rotten breath. “The object here is not information, you _infant_ , but the torture _itself_.”

d’Artagnan squirms.

Bob rears back. “Frankly, torture is a _terrible_ way to find out information. Worse, torturing folks is going to give you _false_ information, which is worse than no information at all. And it makes martyrs out of you lot, and martyrs are _insufferable_. Wouldn’t you agree, Timmy?”

A large man in the background that d’Artagnan hadn’t noticed till then grunts.

“You see,” Bob says, “unlike _some_ people out there, I don’t pretend that what we do here is anything but… gratuitous.”

“Sadistic bastards,” d’Artagnan growls.

“I prefer to call it _art_ ,” Bob says, then steps back as Timmy comes into view, holding a whip. “Go wild, Timmy.”

d’Artagnan shudders as his shirt is ripped from his chest. He manages to hold his tongue for the first two lashes, screams himself raw for the next thirty. His consciousness is already wavering dangerously when Timmy drops the bloodied whip and reaches for a club from his torture cornucopia; at the first blow to his ribs, it abandons him altogether.

-

When d’Artagnan next wakes up, he’s lying down on a bed, Aramis is looming over him, and he’s in so much pain he can barely breathe.

“You’re in the garrison. In the infirmary,” Aramis supplies.

d’Artagnan reaches out with one hand, flailing, until he finds and grasps Aramis’ wrist. His vision is winking in and out with every heaving breath; he hadn’t realised it’s possible to be _lucid_ while feeling like his body is coming apart at the seams. “Ar-Aramis,” he says, desperately. “ _Aramis_.”

“Six broken ribs on one side, three on the other,” Aramis intones. “Two dislocated shoulders, eight broken fingers and one shin; fifty-two lacerations on last count; a concussion, skull fracture, whip lashes and burn marks on your back. When we found you, there was a dagger buried to the hilt in your belly, but it didn’t hit anything vital, so you’re safe.”

“Ev- _everything_ there is vital,” d’Artagnan wheezes out.

“Anyway, we brought you back home on horseback, which turned out to be a terrible idea—your broken ribs punctured your lung, your insides herniated through the stitches on your abdomen, and you developed a raging blood infection. I won’t lie, d’Artagnan, it was touch and go for a while—luckily, I had _just_ the right herb poultice for septic shock.” Aramis beams.

“Oh god,” d’Artagnan says faintly, “I shouldn’t even be alive right now…”

“Nonsense,” Aramis says briskly. “With bed rest and my collection of draughts, you should be good as new in about a month, pup. Just in time for our next mission.”

“We’ll have the infirmary restocked by that time,” Athos says.

d’Artagnan closes his eyes.


End file.
